July 16, 1957, Burbank
“If not for Klaatu,
I’d have come home from Korea in a box.” Science Investigator
Steve Flanagan leaned over Eric Donohue’s desk and thumped it
for emphasis. “Instead, he scared the world into making peace,
and me and my buddies came home in one piece.”
“But he lied.” Donohue,
self-proclaimed pastor of the Dark Star Methodist Church of Burbank,
shook his balding head as if baffled by Steve’s words. “He claimed
the universe was peaceful, yet spacemen have attacked us over
and over again. There’s no doubt that if we’d disarmed as the
false peacemaker suggested, his giant robot would have destroyed
us all.”
“There’s no doubt
Truman would have dropped the a-bomb on China if the war had
gone on,” Steve replied. “Even without that—” He remembered standing
in snow above his knees, ducking North Korean bullets. Seeing
Buck and Willie shot down. Cursing himself for thinking the Army
was a good alternative to jail time. “—liar or not, if he comes
back to Earth, I wanna shake his hand.”
“Oh, there’s no question
he served a purpose in God’s design.” Donohue spread his arms
and gave what was supposed to be a benign smile. The smugness
reminded Steve why he never went to church. “Even the Martians
served a purpose by scourging us, though we failed to realize
how our own sins led to their presence.”
“Your philosophy is
fascinating,” Gwen said. The rickety chair she sat on was the
only seat in the cramped office besides Donohue’s. “However,
we’re here on a mission of national security.”
“My concern is the
security of the human soul.” Donohue held up the Los Angeles
Times, pointing at the front-page photo of cosmonauts Yuri
Gagarin and Alan Shepherd. “In three weeks, these men will enter
outer space—doing so without purging our sins makes it a certainty
God must punish us further.”
“Yeah,” Steve grunted. “I’m
sure if we cancel Skybreaker One, we’ll never have to worry about
kaijin or spacemen again.”
“What we’re concerned
about is this.” Gwen handed Donohue a faintly mimeographed two-page
newsletter. “You stated here that the world would be better off
if the rocket were destroyed on the launch pad.”
“Ahh, so you suspect
me of being, perhaps, a spaceman myself? Who else could question
our government’s plans to intrude on God’s design?”
As Gwen asked Donohue
if he’d be willing to submit to a brain scan or an LSD test,
Steve scrutinized the office for any sign they had a good reason
to be suspect the man. He saw Donohue’s framed mail-order divinity-school
degree on the wall; a big leatherbound Bible next to a paperback
of How to Win Friends and Influence People; a mimeograph
machine; and a lonely manila folder of the church’s membership. A
congregation of six and a dozen or so other dopes who get the
newsletter. Some national security threat.
“I will, of course,
submit to having my brain scanned,” Donohue said wearily. “Though
tell me—if it turned out I was a spaceman who had come in peace,
to guide mankind to God’s true path, what would the government
do then?”
“Since they never
come in peace, how would we know?” Gwen said with a smile as
insincere as Donohue’s. The chair leg groaned alarmingly as she
rose. “You might want to consider fixing that.”
“Donations have been
down this month, Miss Montgomery.” He gave a small sigh. “But
every day I remind myself, a far greater ministry than mine began
in a stable.”
“The lousy part is,
he’s got a point,” Steve said, as he and Gwen emerged into the
heat of the LA sun and headed for the bus stop. “So he mouths
off about going into space? Ain’t he got a right of free speech?”
“’Ain’t’ isn’t in
the dictionary, Steve.” Gwen adjusted her wide-brimmed hat for
a little more shelter from the sun.
“Yesterday, it was
the Nine Planets League, the pacifist broad and that queer from
the Mattachine Society. Today, it’s Donohue, the Burbank Nazi
Party and then that shrink with the miracle cure. I hate Nazis
as much as you do—”
“When I was with the
OSS, I once heard a concentration camp commandant moan about
how the mound of paperwork he had to deal with every day was
the greatest injustice in modern Germany. Believe me, you don’t.”
“And the point is,
despite Senator Dorman’s objections, the Alien Infiltration Committee
requires proof that the TSC takes the threat of an alien fifth
column seriously. Which means the TSC board requires a big file
of investigations to show them, and since the real cases aren’t
common enough—”
“We pick on whoever
the Senators or the board are pissed at. Union organizers in
Chicago, beatniks in New York, queers everywhere.” Steve knew
homosexuals were a security risk in government, but he didn’t
like picking on them in private life, especially since Dani had
explained homosexuality was really a mental illness. “In the
South they lean on Negroes just for talking integration—”
“Another good reason
to ignore Momma’s suggestions I move back to Atlanta.” Gwen settled
onto the empty bus-stop bench with a sigh. Steve joined her,
wishing their boss wasn’t so strict about following Nixon’s gas-conservation
rules for federal workers.
“Even the regular
reports about infiltrators turn out to be nothing, 90 percent
of the time.” Steve reached into his pocket, groping for cigarettes
under the copy of Captain Podkayne of Mars. “This kind
of investigation is less than nothing. We should be working with
Jo and Trueblood, investigating the Invasion City sabotage.”
“It’s been almost
two months and we still don’t have any clue who blackmailed Howard
Chableau into reprogramming those robots.” Gwen pulled out her
lighter and her silver cigarette case out of her purse. “Interviewing
Chableau’s previous employers is just grasping at straws—trust
me, Steve, they’re wasting their time every bit as much as we
are.”
“No, seriously, doll.” Agent
Rob Trueblood smiled winningly at Albert Saunder’s hatchet-faced
secretary, setting his homburg down and adjusting a button on
his vest. “When I came in and saw you, I could have sworn it
was Grace Kelly sitting there.”
Bloody hell, Trueblood,
you think it’ll work on that battle axe? Joanna Davies
wondered briefly why her partner couldn’t grasp that no matter
how fancy his clothes, he wasn’t Rock Hudson, then she refocused
on the owner of Saunders Shipping. “So did I hear right, mate?
You’re refusing to cooperate in a federal investigation?”
“The Technology and
Science Commission is an insult to American sovereignty.” Saunders,
a stiff-backed rail of a man with a salt-and-pepper moustache
waved a copy of Robert Welch’s Blue Book under Jo’s nose.
He’d been clutching it since emerging from his office to wave
them off. “First the TSC used its licensing rules to control
American research on behalf of the international Communist conspiracy.
Then came the World Defense Alliance, which actually shares our
research with the Reds. Who, as Mr. Welch makes clear, are already
under the control of our enemies from outer space!”
“You do realize it
was Eisenhower who created the TSC and the WDA?” Not for the
first time since arriving in America, Jo wondered why so many
Yanks seemed to be completely crackers.
“Both he and Truman
were communist puppets, and now President Nixon has succumbed
to the conspiracy by helping the Russians spread their subversive
doctrines in outer space.”
“Oh, please, you blokes
wouldn’t have gotten off the launching pad without Russian help.” Playing
nice with you is a mug’s racket—let’s see what happens if I get
under your skin instead.
“If not for the TSC
repressing rocket research, we’d undoubtedly have beaten the
Russians into orbit. Possibly as a foreigner you don’t realize—”
“I’m an American citizen.
How about you?”
“—that the sabotage
you’re investigating could be the work of the USSR.” He thrust
the book forward, jabbing a corner into her stomach. “You should
be making inquiries at the Russian embassy instead of disturbing
patriotic Americans at their jobs!”
“Oh, now, I
remember your name!” Jo clapped her hands together as if in surprise. “The
TSC’s turned you down for a research license what, 162 times?
No wonder you don’t like us.”
“My theories are sound!” Saunders
looked so furious, Jo backed up a step. “The Saunders Anti-Gravity
Generator will revolutionize the world, the latest design for
the radioactive core guarantees complete safety—I wouldn’t be
surprised if the Russians are already building a prototype from
plans you people have supplied—”
“You can’t do that!” The
secretary shrieked as Trueblood slid open her desk drawer, then
snatched out a box. “That’s Mr. Saunders’ property.”
“In a lead box, hmm.” Trueblood
slid the metal lid off the box and a purple glow from within
seemed to illuminate the room; to Jo’s relief, he covered it
up fast. “What do you think, doll, are then any legal crystals
that glow like that?”
“Miss Andrews!” Saunders
stared at his secretary, caught between rage and dismay, then
glanced down the corridor behind him. “Why in the name of heaven
would you keep that in there?”
“You told me to hide
it when Mr. Moon dropped in yesterday!” Andrews herself looked
close to panic. “It was the only place I could reach in time!
I don’t know how he knew it was there!”
“I’m psychic,” Trueblood
said, grinning. “So Mr. Moon would be, what, the guy who sold
you this hunk of space rock?”
“Nope.” A lanky six-footer
with cornsilk hair and a dark suit stepped out of an office in
the corridor and held up a badge as Jo started to draw her gun. “Mickey
Moon, FBI. I’m afraid y’all are interfering in a federal investigation.”
“You told me I’d be
safe if I cooperated, Moon.” Saunders knocked over a trash can
in his haste to reach the agent’s side. “I came to you, remember?
Out of patriotism!”
“Patriotism? You’re
hiding radioactive rocks!” Jo met Moon’s eyes, which she noticed
were deep blue. “You shouldn’t be protecting him—by the way,
I’m Jo. Science Investigations Agent Joanna Davies.”
“I only pocketed it
in a moment of weakness!” Saunders sputtered to Moon. “And it’s
not radioactive, that’s why the alien energy inside it would
have made the perfect power source for my generator.”
“Someone said that
about that meteorite they found in Tulsa.” Moon replied, looking
down at the man. “That’s why we only got half of Tulsa left.
“But I’m afraid I
can’t let you arrest him, yet,” he said to Jo and Trueblood. “Or
maybe at all.”
“You think you can
stop us, Tex?” Trueblood said, slipping the lead box into his
pocket. “We’ve got badges too, y’know?”
“But there’s no reason
you can’t discuss it, er, Mickey,” Jo said. Damn. Meeting
a tall drink of water like this when I’m wearing slacks and my
blouse has a coffee stain. “No promises, but maybe we can
work something out.”
“Well, let’s go back
into the office,” Moon said with a nod. “Mr. Saunders, just go
about your business and everything’ll be fine.”
“Fine?” Saunders stared
glumly at Trueblood’s pocket. “Don’t you think the least I deserve
for my service is a research license?”
“I’ll discuss it,
sir,” Mickey said, opening the door on a small office piled with
paper, photos and a television screen showing the front office. “How’d
you find that, Agent Trueblood? I had no idea, and I’ve been
here plenty of times.”
“I wasn’t kidding
about being psychic.” Trueblood took a chair and pulled a small
cigar from his pocket. “Last year’s annual LSD treatment, it
opened something in my mind, I swear it.”
“Stuff and nonsense,” Jo
said, lighting a Gauloise. “He does get some good hunches, but
if you’d ever seen him try to make time with a bird, you’d know
he’s no mind-reader. Cigarette, Mickey?”
“No, thank you. My
momma brought me up to avoid bad habits.”
“And so what are you
investigating that we can’t lock this old crackpot up?” Trueblood
said. “Our department handles rogue scientists, not yours.”
“All y’all are supposed
to do is license people to invent things and arrest the ones
that experiment without licenses” Moon replied, drawing himself
up to his considerable full height. “When folks use science to
commit crime—the Steigg case, or the Milwaukee Shadow—that’s
the FBI’s job. Director Thorpe’s created a special division just
to focus on that.” He smiled shyly at Jo. “I got a physics degree
and an engineering minor out of Texas State, so they thought
I was a good catch.
“Now, let me tell
you why you can’t arrest Mr. Saunders.”
Four weeks earlier,
he said, a self-proclaimed “group of patriots” had contacted
Saunders with a proposal for “liberating American technological
prowess from the Red yoke”—which turned out to mean hiring his
company to ship black-market, unregistered lab equipment and
supplies. Not only would he be well-paid, they’d help set up
a rogue engineering facility for his own use.
They’d misjudged their
man: Saunders had gone to the FBI, who’d convinced him to cooperate
with the group. Since then, he’d transported enough to establish
his bona fides, and had begun pushing cautiously to meet someone
higher up in the organization about setting up his laboratory,
and increasing the amount he was shipping.
“The meeting’s tonight,
at the Magnum Club,” Moon said. “We’ve been following the shipments
and tracking the buyers, but we can’t move until we learn more
about the ring.” He handed Jo a list of material and recipients. “So
far they’ve been shipping transistors, a couple of shipments
of magnetic equipment—”
“Do you know about
the sabotage in Invasion City back in May?” Jo said. Moon nodded. “Someone
provided Chableau with the magnetic equipment to turn Professor
Caldwell’s robots into killers.”
“We’ve thought about
that.” Moon peeled a strip of Juicy Fruit and began chewing. “Nobody
so far seems like a likely suspect, but there aren’t that many
crooks willing to risk this kind’a thing.”
“So maybe if you bust
the ring, we find out who was behind it.” Trueblood tilted his
chair back with a smile. “They selling anything else?”
“Microwave transmitting
equipment—that’s mostly used in radar, and communications like
phones or our wrist-radios. Except unlike most of the stuff,
we couldn’t track the shipment: The package got stored in a warehouse
overnight and it was gone in the morning.” He pointed at the
entry on the typed page. “And the same thing happened to a crate
of psi-circuits.”
“What, the stuff they
use when they try to build mind-reading machines?” Trueblood
said. “Has someone built something advanced enough to be worth
stealing?”
“Rogue scientists
live on hope, we know that,” Jo said. Her finger, sliding down
the page, stopped at another entry. “And more psi-circuits—delivered
to the state mental hospital outside Burbank?” Moon nodded; his
frown asked why it mattered. “It’s had an amazing success rate
with electroshock therapy. A few people say too amazing. We’ve
got a couple of people going over there sometime today—I think
maybe we’d better warn them about what they’re getting into.”
“And not to arrest
anyone before Mr. Saunders has his meeting,” Mickey added, as
Jo began tapping out numbers on her wrist radio.
“Ceecees and pups?” Standing
beside her desk, Dr. Cavanaugh spoke the words with her arms
folded tight across her small chest. “I take it that’s some sort
of Science Investigations slang?”
As Steve explained
that pups were mind control victims, ceecees were carbon copies
of real people, Gwen studied the redheaded woman in the white
lab coat. Steve’s right, this is pointless. One patient’s
family complains about their son, they happen to be old friends
of Sen. Townsend, so Cavanaugh goes on the investigations list.
“Does this have anything
to do with Mildred Glass?” Cavanaugh said suddenly. “I know she
claims her husband isn’t the man he was before I cured his alcoholism—”
“She’s one of several,” Gwen
replied. “They say they’re not only cured, they’re changed—or
replaced.”
“I’ve worked with
drug addicts, depressives, battle-fatigue victims and paranoid
schizophrenics, of course they go home changed. And they’ve been
tested, correct?”
“Sure,” Steve said. “Dr.
Chang says you not only fixed whatever was wrong with them, they’re
free of pretty much any neuroses. Way above average.”
“That’s because we
follow up electroshock with intensive psychotherapy to complete
the process of change.” The doctor unfolded her arms and opened
her cigarette box. “The discomfort is perfectly understandable:
Mrs. Glass spent three years as the de facto head of the family,
it’s not surprising she’d be uncomfortable with her husband being
able to reassert his rightful authority.”
Gwen nodded. “We realize
this is an intrusion, doctor, but if we miss one case of alien
infiltration—” Steve’s wrist-radio buzzed; Gwen clicked her tongue. “How
many times have I told you to put it on standby during interviews?”
“I’ll take it out
in the hall, sorry.” He flashed Cavanaugh a sheepish smile and
walked out quickly.
“Miss Montgomery,
is there really any point to further conversation?” Dr. Cavanaugh
said. “I have three electroshock sessions this afternoon that
I need to prepare for. With any luck, three schizophrenics—all
human—will be able to return to their families inside of a month.”
“I apologize doctor.
And since we have no further cause to investigate—”
“Okay, doc.” Steve
strode back into the office and Gwen saw at once that something
was up. “Does your treatment have anything to do with maybe using
rogue psionic technology on people?” The doctor’s jaw dropped. “I
got a message from Jo, the FBI traced a shipment here.”
“Well, that is interesting.” Gwen
had no idea why Jo was talking to the FBI, but there was no point
in leaving now. “Doctor, unless you want the publicity of Science
Investigations going to court for a search warrant, you might
want to—”
“It’s not possible.” Cavanaugh
was breathing in short, nervous gasps, her long fingers flipping
the lid of the cigarette box up and down. “Diomedes couldn’t
possibly—”
“Diomedes?” Steve
said.
“Diomedes Andropolous,
the engineer who maintains the electroshock equipment. He did
say he’d put in some modifications of his own—wait a second!” Cavanaugh
slammed the box shut. “What could he possibly have done? You
can’t suggest he’s mentally controlling the one hundred and sixty
patients I’ve cured.”
“We can’t be sure
what was done until we bring someone from headquarters to research
your equipment,” Gwen said. “We’d like to take a look at once,
and we could get Dr. White or Dr. Gould here probably before
sunset.”
“Wait. Please, before
this goes any further, give Dioemedes a chance to explain. I’m
sure it’s just a misunderstanding.” She reached for the intercom,
paused and looked at Gwen; Gwen gave a nod, Cavanaugh flipped
the switch. Gwen saw Steve’s hand drop to the butt of his gun,
just in case. “Annette, please ask Dr. Andropolous to come in.
I know he’s setting up the equipment, but tell him to shake a
leg.”
A minute later, someone
knocked on the office door, then opened without pausing. A tall
swarthy man stepped inside, saw Steve and Gwen—and spun on his
heel and raced out.
“Hold it buddy!” Steve
had his gun drawn, racing after Andropolous—and as he ran through
the doorway, Gwen saw him go limp as if he’d been pole-axed.
She started forward, realized that was a mistake and turned—to
find a luger in Dr. Cavanaugh’s hand pointing right between her
eyes.
“I’m a healer, not
a killer, Miss Montgomery. Please don’t force me to change that.”
“You’re also an excellent
actor.” The doctor didn’t look comfortable with the gun; the
longer they kept talking, the greater the chance she’d be distracted. “I
didn’t suspect ‘shake a leg’ was a signal.”
“Faking emotional
distress is easy when you understand the physical signs intimately.
Just as luring your partner with a fleeing-prey scenario produced
an automatic hunter’s response. Diomedes, can we have her—”
“It’ll take ten minutes
for the stun-plate to rebuild the charge, I told you,” he replied
in heavily accented English. He removed Steve’s gun, handed it
to Cavanaugh’s secretary and then grabbed Steve by the ankles. “What
now?”
“The transformation
room, of course.” Cavanaugh frowned at Gwen, who was gauging
the chance of snatching the gun away; it didn’t look good. “Please
place your gun on my desk…that’s it. Now, follow Diomedes.”
Diomedes dragged Steve
into the battleship-grey corridor; Gwen winced to see Steve’s
slack mouth sliding along the dirty floor; she still had the
derringer in her purse, but there was no chance to get to it
yet.
Ten yards down the
corridor, Andropolous let go of Steve and unlocked a heavy metal
door. “Doctor, what good will transference do? Is it even medically
ethical to use it on them?”
“It’s not going to
hurt them, you know that. And if we can use the process to replace
traumatic memories, perhaps we can implant the idea this meeting
was perfectly routine…Or blame Markham for the illegal equipment!
His death in that car crash makes him—what is it you cops say,
the perfect patsy?”
“Well, I certainly
don’t say that.” Gwen passed through the doorway. The room was
filled with the wires, flashing lights and machines she expected
in a rogue science operation, all hooked up at one end to a heavy
metal chair. At the other— “What the devil is that?”
‘That’ was a plastic,
human-shaped mold, with what looked like globs of bread dough
dripping into it. Bread dough that wiggled and writhed.
“One of the patients
found the original clump in a meteorite that landed on the grounds.” Cavanaugh
said. “It duplicated his form but it was mindless; the mind transference
technology we developed fixed that. Right now, I wish I hadn’t
listened to Diomedes about upgrading—”
“You’ve been able
to do so much more with a direct mental interface, doctor.”
“Even without it,
we were able to eliminate every problematic brain defect and
mental structure.”
“And then I suppose
you kill the original patient,” Gwen said. “My compliments—you
actually fooled me into thinking you cared about them.”
“She cares more than
anyone I’ve ever met!” Andropolous said, dropping Steve on the
far side of the room “The mind transfers to the new body, the
person doesn’t die, they—”
“And what about the
soul? Does that jump too or do you just create a blob that thinks
it’s the original?” Get them angry. Get them angry before
they put you in that chair! “First do no harm, isn’t that—”
“Enough!” Andropolous
grabbed her by the shoulders and shoved her into the chair, hard. “I
will not have you insult the greatest woman who ever—”
He was between Gwen
and the doctor’s Lugar. Gwen’s knee came up hard and Andropolous
doubled over. She shoved him toward the doctor, scrambled behind
the chair and drew her derringer.
“Damn you!” A couple
of bullets from the Lugar forced Gwen to keep her head down. “There
are so many people here who need this treatment!”
“Do you even know
what that material is?” The question brought another bullet;
if she emptied the clip, Gwen would have her chance. “Are the
bodies stable? Do the minds stay human?”
“You said it yourself,
they’re perfect.” Gwen heard the steel door slammed shut, looked
up and saw they’d left the room. She raced over to the door,
but wasn’t surprised it was locked. “Miss Montgomery, when you
get out of there, walk the halls of this building. Look at the
condition of my patients. Realize that every one of them could
have left this place, healthy and happy, as soon as I’d grown
enough protoplasm for their new bodies. And because of you, they’re
imprisoned for life.
“Pay particular attention
to Joe Fleagle. You took away his one chance at a normal existence
and if there’s justice in heaven, you’ll never forget the sight
of him.”
Gwen could just make
out footsteps running back to the doctor’s office. She called
Nate on her wrist-radio, knowing nobody would arrive in time
to catch them.
“So it was a total
cock-up?” Jo said into her wrist-radio. “I was trying to tell
you not to do anything!”
“Wish I’d realized
that,” Steve’s voice said with a sigh. “If they’d been willing
to just kill us, I wouldn’t be having this conversation…As it
is, the entire staff is gone, the hospital records are destroyed,
we may never be able to identify all the patients that she transformed.
“And Jesus, those
patients she left behind…I never thought I’d say this, but I
don’t blame her for wanting to help them. Even this way.”
“It’s not help.” Jo
saw Mickey and Trueblood look over at her and lowered her voice. “I
was with Scotland Yard when the meteor creatures took over the
government, remember? You can’t let them get a foothold, ever.”
“Well, they may have
one—let’s hope she was right and they’ll go on thinking they’re
human. Hope you guys are doing better.”
“The FBI has rented
an office near the Magnum Club—Burke Clipping Bureau’s the name
on the door now—and his partner’s down there watching,” Jo said. “There’s
microphones in the lounge where Saunders is meeting, and Mickey
agreed Trueblood and I could hang around. Just in case this ties
into Chableau.”
“Mickey, huh?” Steve
chuckled. “We’re heading back to Wind Song. Good luck.”
Jo broke contact,
remembering what it was like to realize someone you were talking
to wasn’t as human as they appeared—Stop it, you clot! You
don’t need another nervous breakdown! “Mickey, anything yet?”
“He should be getting
into the lounge at any second.” He studied her face with concern,
but said nothing. “Wait, I think I hear his name—”
“Hi, Saunders.” Jo
moved over to join Mickey and Trueblood next to the tape recorder.
“Hopkirk, good to
see you.” The three of them heard Saunders voice clearly over
the chatter and hubbub of the club. “Norman, scotch and soda
please?”
The tape recorder
whirred, putting down everything as Saunders bought his drink,
settled into a chair, made desultory comments. Jo could hear
the tension in his voice, and wondered if he’d be able to see
it through. But as soon as the bloke shows up, Mickey’s partner’ll
have him. And if he was involved with Chableau, we can settle
the score for DeKalb and Hannah and everyone else who went for
a burton.
Saunders fell silent.
Long minutes passed with the chat ebbing and flowing and Saunders
remained silent. And then, suddenly, someone said “What the hell
is that smell? Is someone cooking pork in here?”
“I was wondering the
same thing? Christ, it—”
“Saunders, buddy,
you smell it?”
“Can’t you see? Albert’s
dozed off.”
“Come on, wake up—”
The bloodcurdling
yell that followed left Jo little doubt Saunders had not been
asleep after all. And that whoever they were dealing with, he
wasn’t going to be in their hands that night.
